


Âme et Antithèse

by IvoryRaven



Series: Corona Challenge [24]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Misery, Murder, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Harry Potter, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23906239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvoryRaven/pseuds/IvoryRaven
Summary: To say that Harry misses Voldemort would be an understatement.And his coping mechanisms are questionable to say the least.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Corona Challenge [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705024
Comments: 2
Kudos: 101
Collections: Corona Challenge





	Âme et Antithèse

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Anna_Hopkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Anna_Hopkins) in the [CoronaChallenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CoronaChallenge) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Harry misses Voldemort, after the war. His coping methods are... questionable.
> 
> (Crack OR Angst and/or Smut?)

Something was missing and Harry felt the hole. Something had gone.

Ginny noticed first. He was not the bright-eyed enthusiast he used to be. He’d grown jaded, tired of being.

He wasn’t the Harry she had been dating. She instigated their break-up, and he didn’t protest. He wished her well on her future relationships.

It wasn’t a week later that he saw her snogging Terry Boot in Diagon Alley. He couldn’t say he was surprised, or even disappointed. They had been over long before she called it.

“I don’t like this obsession,” she had said when he brought home a brick from what had been Wool’s Orphanage.

“It’s getting creepy,” she had said when he started living in the Chamber of Secrets. She had drawn back from him as he amassed more and more memorabilia: authentic Death Eater robes and a collection of masks, a custom-made imitation of Voldemort’s black and gray garb, Slytherin robes, all the destroyed Horcruxes including Nagini’s skull, real human skin with the Dark Mark still tattooed onto it.

“Whose was that?” she had asked, her voice high and her eyes wide. Harry had shrugged, and framed it.

Not long after that, he had a replica tattooed onto his own arm and had Slytherin’s locket restored. He took to wearing the locket everywhere he went, dressed, more often than not, in his replica robes.

“This is getting out of hand!” Ron said.

“Maybe you should see a therapist,” Hermione suggested. “This obsession can’t be healthy.”

Harry didn’t care. He styled his hair to look like Tom Riddle’s had, and pestered Draco Malfoy endlessly.

“What was he like?”

“Did he Crucio you?”

“What was his favorite spell?”

“Who was his favorite Death Eater?”

“What did he eat?”

“Potter, stop!” Draco hissed, and backed away as quickly as he could. “Just leave it, all right?”

But Harry would not leave it. He longed to find something to fill the hole in his soul. 

He should never have killed Voldemort. He should never have trusted Dumbledore! He missed his Horcrux and their main soul, the presence he hadn’t known was there until too late.

Horcrux.

Was that the answer?

Harry clutched Slytherin’s locket to his chest and slipped it around his neck, promising to never take it off. He had the perfect thing for it.

And the perfect sacrifices in mind.

He arrived at Ron and Hermione’s wedding in robes reminiscent of the ones Voldemort had once worn. They were surprised to see him there. He hadn’t been invited.

It hadn’t surprised him. They despised him now. They thought him mad.

And maybe, he thought, spinning Slytherin’s locket between his fingers, maybe they weren’t far off.

‘I’m not mad,’ Tom Riddle had insisted. But he had been, when he was older. And wasn’t Harry older? And wasn’t Harry Tom’s completion - the final piece?

It was quite poetic really, now that Harry thought about it.

The words slipped easily off his tongue, the way he’d thought they never would. Two words, six syllables, the epitome of perfection.

The wedding guests watched, horrified, as sharp green light shot from his holly wand, green light than matched his glinting eyes.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Hermione was beautiful in her white wedding dress. Layers of white fabric billowed around her as she fell, her curly hair, tied back with white ribbon, now in a halo around her face.

Hermione was as beautiful as she was dead.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Ron, for all his Auror training, had paid more attention to Hermione than to her killer. He keeled over beside the woman who hadn’t been his wife for more than half an hour, face frozen in timeless anguish.

Harry forced one half of his broken soul into the locket, which received it eagerly. He held it to his chest, then, feeling it there, but it wasn’t enough and it was too much all at the same time. It wasn’t the same, couldn’t replicate what he’d had with Voldemort.

How he longed for true emptiness now, if he could not be complete. He did not care when the Aurors came and handcuffed him, nor when the woman he’d once seen as a mother figure gave her testimony against him through tears. He did not care when they flung him in Azkaban, declaring he had been made corrupt by the Dark Lord’s soul. Perhaps it was true, but Harry wished to feel a reminder of what had once been there and there was nothing, so maybe it really was just him.

“Please,” Harry begged the Dementors, but even they would not take his misery away. Perhaps they sensed that none of the happiness they so craved could be found in him.

Harry clutched his Horcrux and wished for death more than Voldemort had ever wished for life.


End file.
